Sugar and Spice
by Tadpole24
Summary: The drive to Killian's place is spent trying to come up with why her friend is suddenly feigning a cinnamon allergy, because it's probably the worst excuse she's ever heard. A Captain Swan Christmas one-shot


_**So I saw the following prompt and started something completely different to this…but I'm kind of glad the muse took a little left hand turn and we ended up where we did.**_

 _ **Thank you to the wonderful oubliette14 and lifeinahole27 for the read throughs and title talk :) You guys are fabulous!**_

 _ **Really, this is a big old excuse to write Christmas smuff ;)**_

 _._

 _You're allergic to cinnamon? Don't even think of coming to my place around the holidays._

.

…

Sugar and Spice

…

Mary Margaret swings herself through the door, almost floating on a cloud of Christmas joy, a Santa hat perched on her pixie cut, red and green bags in her free hand, the other wrapped around her boyfriend's. Emma looks up from the mixing bowl on the kitchen counter, smiling at her flatmate and taking in the suffering look on David's face.

"Hi guys," she says cautiously, watching them wander straight over to the small Christmas tree and immediately pile up the presents higher than the star at the top.

David seems to be the only one who heard her, turning around to wave and to finally breathe, "Hi Emma." He leaves Mary Margaret fussing over the present placement and steps his way towards the kitchen, "What are you making there?"

She smiles and starts to turn herself and the mixture away from the approaching man, knowing exactly what he's going to do when she tells him what's in the bowl. "Cookies," she eventually says, not elaborating.

But he's too quick for her, hand darting over her shoulder to grab at a clump of the cookie dough, slipping it into his mouth before she can protest. "Mmm," he moans, chewing the stolen mixture, "Don't tell mom, but I think you do it better."

It's been over a decade since Ruth Nolan took Emma into her care, David becoming her older brother, but it still sends her stomach into a fit of warmth when he says something that makes her feel like part of the family. Doing the family double chocolate chip cookie recipe justice is definitely one of those things.

"Secret's safe with me," she says, putting the bowl down to hug her brother. "Thanks for coming tonight."

His arms wrap easily around her waist, "I'm just sorry you'll be alone tomorrow."

Something pangs in her gut at the word 'alone', something that makes her wish, for just a second, that she could erase the images of last Christmas from her mind. Memories of Neal being there and promising forever before promptly breaking her heart on the 26th are not things she wants to remember right now. _Alone_ is not a thing she wants to think about.

David and Mary Margaret are hitting the road early to get to her hometown by lunchtime to spend Christmas day with her family. Emma would usually not be bothered at all by this, being able to see Ruth and spend the day with her, but her mother is currently living up her retirement and chasing the summer around the world. She'd received a postcard from Australia a few days before, 'Merry Christmas' written in the sand; a hot Christmas is something she can't even fathom but she's so happy that the woman who has given her so much is finally taking some time for herself.

Pulling back from David, she squeezes his biceps, "You need to stop apologising. I'll be fine."

She knows that her brother can see straight through her lie and into the sadness in her eyes, but he doesn't push it and Emma is grateful for that.

Mary Margaret joins them in the kitchen a moment later, helping out with the whole tense moment by slipping herself under David's arm and dipping a finger into a pot sitting on the stove top and sampling another of Emma's sweets. "Oh, that's good!"

The blonde sends a warning look to David, so he knows not to persist with the whole being alone at Christmas thing. Turning her attention to her flatmate and smiling warmly at her, "Just experimenting with the whole choc mint thing."

Mary Margaret nods, licking her lips, "And you're doing it well."

The two continue to talk as David notices his phone ringing and ducks out of the kitchen to answer it. As soon as he's out of earshot, Mary Margaret grabs Emma's arm, sheer terror in her eyes, "Emma, what am I doing?

The complete shift from happily Christmassy to utter fear would almost be comical if Emma knew what the hell was going on but, as it stands, she can't think of one thing that Mary Margaret has been worried about in the last…well, since she met David at the beginning of the year. He'd been helping Emma move her things out of her place with Neal and into the flat that Mary Margaret had already been living in. The two had had one of those sickly love-at-first-sight moments as they'd navigated Emma's TV through the door and the rest had been history.

Not once has Emma seen Mary Margaret in a frazzle but, now, as the shorter woman grips her wrist, she decides that's exactly what she's in. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Letting go of Emma, Mary Margaret starts pacing, "I've never brought a man home before. My mom has this…knack for picking up on things I usually don't. David's amazing. He's everything I ever imagined in a partner, but what if my mom doesn't think he's right for me? She's never been wrong." She abruptly stops in her tracks and faces Emma, "Oh my god! And he's your brother. I don't mean anything by it…David's great. He's perfect."

She almost wants to laugh just because she's never really been the kind of person that gets asked what to do in terms of relationship advice. She's the poster child for failed romantic endeavours, but Mary Margaret looks truly lost right now, so Emma gives the only advice she knows is guaranteed to work. Communication. "Have you spoken to David about this?"

Stricken. That's the only way to describe the other woman's face. Absolutely stricken and scandalised by the idea that she bring this up with her boyfriend, "What if he gets mad? What if he thinks I'm insulting him? What if we have a…" she lowers her voice to just above a whisper, "Fight?"

Touching a hand to Mary Margaret's shoulder, Emma fixes her friend with an honest glare, "Then you fight. And then you make up. And then you do it all over again. That's how relationships work. You need to talk about how you're feeling. David will be more concerned about the fact that he missed how stressed you've been than mad at you for thinking your mother won't approve of him." She can see David coming back towards the kitchen and could leave it at that, but she can't help but give Mary Margaret the single most important piece of advice she ever could, "Besides, even if he does end up angry, make up sex is the best kind." She throws in a wink for good measure and leaves the poor woman to blush as she asks David, "Everything okay?"

Her brother looks confused, eyes still on his phone before raising his head, "Yeah, I think."

Emma raises her eyebrows, stirring the pot on the stove, "Hmm, that's convincing."

That seems to shake David out of whatever stupor he's in, "Yeah, it was just Killian." Her eyes unconsciously flick to the clock on the wall, seeing that it is well after 6pm which is when their friend said he'd be here. "Said he's 'developed an allergy to cinnamon' and can't make it over."

She frowns, setting the wooden spoon she's been using down, "That's weird."

David nods in agreement, "Yeah. He sounded…off."

Her brother and Killian Jones had been friends since before Emma had come into the picture; they'd gladly accepted her into their little friendship circle when Ruth had adopted Emma and helped her get used to having people who cared for her. If she's being honest, which is a difficult thing to do sometimes, she'd like to think of Killian as that one person who will always be in her life. The bruised and battered state of her heart has meant that she perhaps hasn't examined those feelings as closely as she could, but she knows there is something there and probably always will be between the two of them.

She can see that it's bothering David, whatever is going on with Killian. She can also see from the pleading look in Mary Margaret's eyes that she wants to speak with Dave as soon as possible, so grabbing a selection of already baked cookies and sealing them in a container, she offers, "I'll go check on him."

David shakes his head, holding up a hand, obviously feeling some type of 'bro code' thing going on, "It's okay, Emma. I'll go."

But she's already made up her mind; she and Killian had had a similar upbringing in terms of a serious lack of stability and she knows that she'll be able to talk him through whatever has got him down. Add that to the fact that she's fairly certain his aversion tonight is to her – why else would he contact David for a gathering that's at her place? – and she's already walking towards the door, slipping on her sneakers and pulling her coat on before her brother can say another word, "You guys stay here, plan your trip for tomorrow," then throwing a hopeless look towards the deserted cookie mixture, she sighs, "and try not to get sick from eating too much cookie dough."

David's eyes light up at the reminder of the abandoned chocolately goodness and Mary Margaret throws her a look of thanks. Before she can get too upset about the fact that, even if she does manage to get Killian out of whatever state he's in, she'll still have to cook a whole new batch of cookies tonight – it's tradition, after all – she grabs her keys and closes the door behind her.

It doesn't take her too long to reach Killian's apartment complex, her drive over having been spent trying to come up with why her friend is suddenly feigning a cinnamon allergy, because it's probably the worst excuse she's ever heard.

She grabs the cookies and punches in the code for his building, pulling the key for his apartment from her pocket. They'd decided it was probably for the best that they all swap keys in case of emergencies. So far they had been used for things like, "Mary Margaret's not home and I know you have a day off and I think I left my hair straightener on, could you just go over and switch it off before I burn my new place down?" and, "Emma, love, my dear friend, rum stole my keys and I can't get in my place, can you come help?" – neither of which had turned out to be emergencies, mind you. The straightener had already been switched off and the alcohol had merely stolen Killian's memories of him slipping his key into his wallet.

But this is an emergency, Emma decides, because Killian Jones doesn't bail on Christmas Eve with his friends. Even still, she knocks as she opens his door, an eerie silence greeting her in a place she's come to know as her second home.

A light under a door near the back of the apartment alerts her to the fact that he's in his bedroom and so she kicks off her shoes and wanders down the hallway towards her new target. For a brief second she has a moment of panic that maybe she shouldn't have come because what if he's got someone in there? What if the reason he couldn't make it to dinner with his friends is because he's got a girlfriend? Why else would he be tucked away in his room at close to 7pm, faking a goddamn cinnamon allergy, of all things, on the night before Christmas?

She banishes the thought almost immediately; Killian couldn't have a partner without she or David knowing. They always know.

"You shouldn't've come, Swan," he calls out to her through his closed bedroom door. She's given up on trying to guess how he always seems to know it's her, instead focussing on how upset he sounds.

"Well, I'm here now, so can I come in?"

She hears the long sigh from him before the bed springs creak and his bare feet pad across the floor to unlock the door. He doesn't open it though, leaving that part up to her as she hears him turn away and trek back to the bed. He's sitting on the edge of it by the time she gathers the courage to actually push the door and she has to fight the compulsion to gasp when she sees him.

There must be some kind of reaction that escapes her though, because he looks up at her with guilt and apologies written all over his face. Along with a decidedly black eye and bruised jaw. Her gaze flickers down to his hands to see if he at least got a few punches in and, sure enough, his knuckles are a sad shade of purple on one hand and completely bandaged on the other leading her to think that he's probably broken the skin underneath.

"You should see the other guy?" he says weakly, his tone carrying his words like a question, as though he doesn't know how she's going to react to seeing him like this.

She's known Killian Jones a long time, has seen him go through a lot and it's not the first time she's seen him with bloodied up knuckles and a bruised face. But it is the first time he's looked…regretful? No, that's not it; if anything he looks proud. But also, perhaps, sheepish. Like he's done something wrong by her in particular.

Taking a step towards him, she tentatively asks, "And who is the other guy?"

 _Ah_ , that's what it is, she thinks as she sees the look flicker across his face. It's not the actions he's wrestling with, it's who they were against. She sets the container of cookies down at the foot of his bed, taking a seat next to him and reaching out to take his bandaged hand in hers.

"You'll have to tell me eventually, Killian," she urges.

He watches their joined hands carefully, a frown on his face as she untucks the edge of the bandage and begins to pull it from his palm. She's seen him tend to his own wounds before and knows he would have just been in a hurry to stem any blood flow. Sure enough, when she gets to the skin of his knuckles, there's no barrier between the bandage and the blood and it's stuck. Knowing that he needs a minute to compose himself, she stands and walks to the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth, lifting his hand back into her lap and soaking the bandage from his skin.

He hisses when the water touches his raw knuckles but doesn't withdraw; for that she is grateful.

"You know, talking is a great distraction," she prompts finally, quirking an eyebrow in his direction while keeping her eyes focused on his hand.

He sighs again, biting his lip, "I'm sorry for cancelling tonight." She nods, accepting his apology and awaiting his reason. "I, uh, I just didn't think you'd want a reminder of last Christmas when this year has been so good for you."

She stops her slow peel of the bandage and closes her eyes, breathing in slowly and counting to three, because she knows what he's done. Knows who the 'other guy' is.

"Killian…"

But he stops her, "You don't have to say it. I know. I'm a bloody fool."

She almost laughs, "I'm not sure that covers it." He shrugs and she knows he's already giving himself enough grief over it all, but she has to ask, "What happened?"

The bandage has lifted away now and, before she can assess the damage too closely, he turns his palm up and runs his fingers in the spaces between hers, "He and the woman you caught him with last year must have broken up. He was telling all his mates how you would be sure to come crawling back to him. Like you're helpless for him. Like you haven't spent the last year rebuilding your life."

She bites her lip because she shouldn't want to smile right now, but this protective streak in her friend has always made her feel so safe with him and it's nice to know that he still cares after all these years. Bumping her shoulder against his, she gets him to look up at her. "You didn't have to…"

He cuts her off, squeezing her fingers, "I did. The things he was saying, Emma. They were…" he pauses to take a breath and she can tell he's getting riled up again at the memory.

"Hey," she says, pulling him back to her again. This time of year is not good for him either, the memories of his late brother always hitting him hardest when the rest of the world is just so happy. He meets her gaze again, tilting his head forward to rest his forehead against her temple.

"I shouldn't have been drinking alone," he finally admits, his voice shaky and vulnerable.

Setting his hand down to rest on her thigh, she raises hers to brush against his cheek, turning just slightly to look him in the eye. "Hey," she repeats, "Thank you." He huffs out a breath that might be a mirthless laugh and she feels it, warm, against her lips. "You know I'm a big girl now though, right? You know I can punch my own men."

This time it's definitely a laugh that escapes his lips, a small grunt of a thing that sounds self-deprecating in nature. "And I think it's about time you understood why I tend to lose myself when it comes to you."

She nods against his forehead. They've been here a thousand times over the years, balancing on the precipice of something more; something tentative and hopeful. And she's pulled back a thousand times, always a reason bouncing around her head. But there's something final about tonight, something that screams at her that this is exactly where she's meant to be. The decision rests in her hands and she finds she's not as anxious as she knows she once would have been to simply ask him, "Why?"

A flicker of a smile flashes across his face before he leans that last inch in towards her and all she can see is the stars against the backs of her eyelids as he finally, finally kisses her. And it's nothing and everything that she ever imagined; soft and strong and warm and breathless. The hand on his cheek reaches around to the back of his neck and pulls herself more completely into him, moaning when his tongue presses past her lips and she can taste him, the sweet mint of a candy cane making her smile against his lips, their teeth clacking together briefly as they take the moment to just breathe. It's so simple, so pure; a kiss that sets her soul alight, flames dancing along her skin, sparking a hunger that has been kept a secret for too many years.

The hand on her thigh has inched up to where her hip meets her leg, thumb pressing along the join, so close to where she needs him to be. She rocks her hips forward on the bed, encouraging him, licking her lips and tasting his mint.

"Do you understand?" he asks, his quiet voice so loud in the electricity of the room.

It's probably a rhetorical question, but she finds herself nodding anyway. Because, in a way, she has always understood, has always gotten it. She kisses him again, a chaste peck to his bottom lip, before standing before him and pulling off her coat, letting it fall in a heap at her feet. Her jeans are loose, her sweater is stained with eggs and chocolate from her baking today, and she's running through her memories of the morning hoping to every Christmas miracle that she put on half decent underwear, but he doesn't seem to care as she gently pushes him back on the bed and straddles his hips. His hands instinctively reach for her waist, settling her nerves with the simple gesture.

And then she is kissing him again and he is accepting each movement with the same enthusiasm. It's kind of surreal in a way, after all these years, that it should be this easy. Really though, how could it be anything but?

His hands slide from her waist down to her hips, pressing her pelvis down to grind against his growing arousal, gasping when she breaks away to watch his reaction.

"Emma," he sighs, one hand moving back up her torso, underneath the light sweater and cupping her breast in a smooth movement as she leans back down towards him.

There was a time, years ago, when she had been camping with David and Killian, sleeping in the tray of her brother's old truck while the boys had slept in a tent. He'd joined her in the middle of the night, wanting the experience of sleeping under the stars, and they'd fallen asleep while trying to find all the constellations they could name. Emma had awoken at the first sign of light over the horizon, breathing and counting to three before pulling Killian's arm from around her, his hand from her breast, before he'd woken up. She'd never admit it to him, but she's had actual dreams about the warmth of his hand on her flesh so intimately. But having him there again, thumb flicking over her nipple, this time knowing exactly what he's doing; it's so much more and she knows her dreams will forever be changed.

It comes easy to them, this whole tearing off clothes and admiring each new piece of the puzzle. He nuzzles the sensitive underside of her breast as he undoes the button on her jeans, she rolls her underwear covered core over his hard length as she removes his t-shirt. Straddling his naked thighs and looking down, she sees blue eyes looking back up at her; honest blue eyes that hold so much potential in them, so much hope, so much love.

She rests her hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the dark bruise below his bottom eyelid. He tilts his head forward and presses his lips to her sternum, his fingertips trailing up the backs of her thighs to the elastic waistband of her simple cotton underwear. He slides further down the bed and down her body, open mouthed kisses trailing along her stomach and hip bone, until he is lying between her legs, leaning up to press a final kiss against her still covered centre.

Her legs can barely hold her up, whimpering as she falls forward to grasp the headboard. He chuckles below her, a dark thing that makes her _want_. And then there is a tear of fabric, one side of her panties ruined and pushed down the other leg until she can shake them off her and onto the floor. She'd be more pissed about it if it weren't for his eager tongue writing dizzying words into her core, lips sucking her clit into his mouth and… "Oh god!" she cries, head leaning on her arms where they're still braced against the headboard.

His hands guide her, allowing her to rock her hips just enough to give her that delicious friction she needs. He nips at her clit, teeth gently biting down on the sensitive nerve endings and tongue rapidly flicking across it.

"I'm close," she says between breaths, her voice a mere shadow of its usual strength. But he's doing things to her and she can't breathe and it feels too good and…

She rolls her hips once more before stilling, a silent scream falling from her lips as he continues to lap at her most sensitive skin, his own groans sending vibrations rocking through her system that only draw out all the pleasure she is feeling.

The flat of his tongue swipes once more against her before he helps guide her flushed body down to the bed, rolling them over so that she's on her back, her legs automatically wrapping around the backs of his knees to keep his cock steadily brushing her reddened flesh. He smiles, dropping his forehead to hers and kissing her soundly.

She catches his hand as he reaches out to the drawer beside the bed, knowing he'd been going for protection, fingers wrapping around his and bringing it up above her head. Her eyes meet his, "We're good?"

And he nods because he would never do anything to put her in harm's way, "Aye. We're good."

She smiles at him then, because this is one of those happily freeing moments that deserves a smile. He grips her fingers a little tighter between his, his other hand moving to the small of her back to tilt her hips up just slightly while her free hand guides the long heat of him to her waiting wetness.

And, " _Fuck_." They both sigh it, the thick drag of him enough to have them both holding their breath for a moment.

One of her legs slides up his thigh, the heel of her foot nudging at his lower back and getting him to move. She arches up into him, negating the hand on her back, so he allows it to wander, watching each shiver with fascination, learning her body as he slides in and out of it at a steady pace. She watches him as he learns that she likes a slight pinch at her nipples, learns that his fingernails trailing down her waist sets her skin off in a wonderful show of goosebumps and learns that her body grips him a little tighter when his thumb rubs circles into her clit.

"Mmm, right there," she breathes, her eyes closing as she chases her high. She can feel his pace faltering, his control bending to the point of nearly breaking, so she lifts her other leg to his waist, allowing him to sink just that little bit deeper and then they're both there, on the edge of oblivion holding onto each other through the fall.

She goes first, her body arching all the way off the bed, eyes flying open to watch as he follows close behind, falling forward into her, his lips catching any piece of skin he can find – her collar bone, her neck, her jaw – desperate for her taste to guide him back to solid ground. The space between them is filled with whispered words of beauty and adoration and, when he crashes down to the side of her, her body curling gently against his, she can't think of any single reason why this can't be her forever, why he can't be the person who makes her feel less alone in this world.

"I probably love you, you know?" she says into his neck before pressing her lips to his skin.

He smiles, lazily tracing patterns into her ribcage, "I probably always have."

It's a quiet moment filled with so much tenderness. Hard to believe that an hour ago she'd been ready to collect her friend, bring him back to her place and just continue on with her Christmas baking. She smiles into his chest thinking that this is a much better outcome.

Her eyes are just starting to close, her breathing evening out, when her phone sounds from her coat pocket. And normally she wouldn't even bother with checking it, content to leave it until morning, but it's a gentle reminder that she should probably let David and Mary Margaret know that she won't be home tonight.

Without prompting, Killian reaches out his arm, dragging the coat towards the bed until it's close enough that Emma can reach into the pocket to grasp her phone. Tucking herself back at Killian's side, she unlocks the screen and opens her messages to see she has received one each from her flatmate and her brother.

 _ **Best. Advice. Ever. Though you probably won't see us until after the holidays. We'll be quiet when you get in, promise. I'm sorry we won't be here for you on Christmas day. MM x**_

Emma has to laugh at that because turns out she can give great relationship advice. She can't imagine David getting mad at Mary Margaret for venting her concerns, but talking to each other clearly hasn't hurt them.

Scrolling down one message, she opens the one from David.

 _ **You didn't kill him, did you? There is cinnamon in those cookies!**_

She snorts at the same time that Killian says, "Cookies?"

Nodding, she sits up and picks the container up off the floor where it had fallen while the bed had been otherwise occupied, "Yeah. I was going to prove you didn't have a cinnamon allergy by tricking you into eating these."

He has good nature enough to look sheepish at her revelation, apologising again for lying.

"It's fine," she says, opening the container and grinning at the childlike glee that passes across his face at the smell of the cinnamon sugar butter cookies, "I think we can move past it."

Settling back into the bed, accepting the half of the cookie that Killian offers her, she hits the reply button to David first.

 _ **Don't worry. He is very much alive.**_

Killian laughs at that, "You know you're going to be leaving him with more questions than answers with that, right, love?"

She grins, a little thing that lets him know that she knows _exactly_ what she's doing, "I think we might need to ease him into this news slowly."

Shrugging, he nods in agreement with her, not finding a fault in her logic.

Turning back to her phone and chewing thoughtfully on the cookie, making a mental note to add more cinnamon next time, she opens Mary Margaret's message to reply to.

She considers asking Killian about tomorrow, but knows her question would be met with an obvious answer. So, instead, she just taps out a response and smiles when she feels Killian press a kiss into her hair, knowing he's read it.

 _ **Told you. And don't worry about me – I won't be spending the holidays alone.**_


End file.
